


p.t. after phillip

by purplefennels7



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: :)))), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Death, Did I mention drinking, Five Stages of Grief, M/M, Panic Attacks, so much drinking oh my god, there are no happy endings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-21 16:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16580177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplefennels7/pseuds/purplefennels7
Summary: Phineas never thought he’d have to imagine a life without Phillip Carlyle in it, and he’d certainly never imagined how much it would hurt.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Don't You Know This Ain't Goodbye?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13702887) by [SilverLynxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverLynxx/pseuds/SilverLynxx). 



> i started this fic in february and i'm now finishing it ten months later :) anyway prepare for a lot of phineas suffering. and alcohol and self-pity. thanks to everyone that's listened to me complain about this thing (especially [taka](https://picnokinesis.tumblr.com) and [lynxx](https://silverlynxx.tumblr.com) for the angsty cover of the other side and the companion fic that inspired the whole thing).

It takes a long time before Anne and Lettie can pry Phillip’s body out of Phineas’s grasp. Phineas hangs on stubbornly, determined to protect Phillip, his friend, his lover, his _partner_ , until he can’t anymore. Determined to steal him from the jaws of death even though what he can’t comprehend is that it’s already too late. His desperate prayers can’t do anything to bring him back. But still he clings to his cooling body like a drowning man clings to a rope, because he still can’t do it, still can’t let himself believe that Phillip’s gone. Phillip still looks as beautiful as ever, even lit only by the still-blazing fire, but the colour is already draining from his skin and bleaching it white-marble. Phineas’s eyes flicker away from Phillip's mouth for a second, still refusing to believe that those seven simple words, _I’ll see you on the other side_ , could hold such devastating finality.

But the moment he looks away, the first thing he sees is his eyes, open and fixed on the sky, and a chill runs down Phineas’s spine as he stares into that macabre gaze. Acting almost on instinct, he uncurls one arm from around Phillip’s waist and reaches out to slide his eyes gently shut. From here, if he ignores the fire still crackling behind them and the thin wails of children tugging at parents gawking at the flames, he can almost bring himself to pretend that he’s looking down at Phillip passed out on the couch at home, exasperated smile tugging at his lips as he brushes a kiss across his forehead.

“Goodnight, Phil,” he says, voice breaking painfully as he speaks. He valiantly blinks back tears for as long as he can, suddenly self-conscious in the face of his own delusions, but eventually his eyes spill over and then he’s slumping hopelessly over Phillip, each sob tearing from his throat and setting his entire body shaking. He tries his best to dash the tears away, but he misses, hand trembling, and they fall to soak a dark spot into Phillip's burnt, torn waistcoat. Somehow the sight of his own tears marring the already-ruined fabric sets Phineas off even further, rocking back and forth on his knees as he gathers Phillip’s unresponsive form closer to his chest as if he’s cradling a child.

“Phillip, Phillip, Phil,” he chokes out between sobs, the mere act of speaking setting his throat screaming. “Phil, please, come back, you can’t just go, please, please, come back to me, come back home, Phil, I love you, please don’t go.” There’s no response. No movement.

“Phil, please, don’t leave me,” Phineas whispers one more time, not even daring to breathe, as if he still has some hope left somewhere in him. But there’s nothing. Not a breath, not a blink, not even a twitch. He lets out a broken wail, laying his head on Phillip’s chest as if he’s listening for a heartbeat, and lets the sounds around him fade to nothingness.

* * *

An indeterminable amount of time later, the sound of someone calling his name breaks through the haze filling his brain.

“Phineas. Phineas, you have to let him go. Phineas, there’s nothing you can do. He’s gone.” He shakes his head desperately and does his best to wrench away from the hand tugging at his shoulder. He tears his eyes away from Phillip for a second and offers Lettie a hopeless look, silently begging her to leave him alone.

"Phineas, please," she says, tears streaking her cheeks as she stands her ground. "You can't save him, honey. You've got to let go." Phineas shakes his head mutely, words refusing to form coherent shapes in his head. It seems like he'd just seen him, just seen him alive and breathing and reaching for him, and he couldn't be _gone_ just like that.

"Phineas, I know. It isn't okay, and it won't be okay for a long time," Anne says, voice cracking as she clings to Lettie's arm, something that sounds suspiciously like a sob escaping her mouth. "I just lost my best friend, god, I know, it shouldn’t have been him. He deserved so much better. But you've got to let him go. The longer you hold on the longer it's gonna hurt. And I know he wouldn't want that for you."

And at last, Phineas looks up and sees his troupe standing around them like an honour guard, and he forces himself to let go of his death grip on Phillip's body.

Anne and Lettie are there in an instant, helping to lift Phillip away, and then turn to catch hold of Phineas’s arm and whisk him off as well. He wrenches away, almost throwing himself to his feet and reaching futilely for Phillip as the oddities carry him away, deaf to his cries to wait and leaving him looking after them with _he’s gone, you’ve got to let go_ warring with _no, he’s Phillip, he’s mine, don’t take him away_. He turns to Anne and Lettie, clutching at each other in the waning light of the evening with the rest of the oddities spread behind them, varying looks of horror and anguish painted over each of their faces.

“Where are they taking him?” he asks, voice small and helpless even to himself. Anne opens her mouth to respond, takes one look at his face, and closes it, turning away so he doesn’t see her break.

“Somewhere safe, Phineas. They’ll take care of him. He’ll be safe.” Lettie fills the silence, unable to look at Phineas’s stricken expression any longer.

“He’ll be safe,” he repeats quietly, turning the suddenly foreign-feeling words over in his mouth. “He’ll be safe.” A ringing is starting up in his ears, and he barely registers someone calling after him as he turns and walks in the other direction.

He isn’t quite sure where he’s going; all he knows is that he has to get away from there. He isn’t sure how he’s meant to feel, either. He just feels empty, like someone’s shattered something deep within him and reached in and pulled a shard of his soul right out of his body, but he can’t quite place where the missing piece is meant to sit.

“Phineas! Phineas, wait!” Behind him, Lettie looks frantically around, searching for someone to run after him, catch him and drag him back where she can at least know that he’s safe. A trembling Anne is sobbing quietly against her chest, but she’s that close to passing her off to Rita and running after Phineas herself.

“Lettie, let him go. Give him some time.” Rita’s already there, though, and as she puts a hand on Lettie’s arm, she can tell that she’s serious. “Barnum can take care of himself. Let’s get the others somewhere to sleep. We’ve all lost something tonight.” And even as she opens her mouth to protest, Lettie knows that she’s right. Some of the performers share a rented flat, squeezing five people into rooms meant for two, but most people still used to pull up mattresses and sleep in the back of the museum. It was more of a home than most of them had ever had. They can’t run off looking for Phineas, who, harsh as it seems, has a house _and_ a flat, while half the circus wanders the streets with their home in flames. A wan smile crosses Rita’s face as Lettie wraps her arm tighter around Anne and nods.

“Let’s get everyone somewhere safe.”

* * *

It feels like there are nails being driven into Phineas’s head as he stumbles along the street. There’s people yelling and pushing against him, trying to get closer to witness the circus’ final spectacle, but he might as well be walking through empty space for all he notices. The pounding in his head is strengthening to a dull roar and he can barely see where he’s going as the edges of his vision turn to black. He only prevents himself from passing out right there by sheer force of will.

But eventually, somehow, he ends up in the street in front of Phillip’s flat. He stands there disoriented for a matter of minutes, fingers pressed to his temples in a futile attempt to staunch his headache, until he remembers. _He has a key to the place._

He can still remember Phillip pressing cold metal into his palm one night and following it up with a kiss. He’d opened his hand to find a single key with his initials engraved into it. Needless to say, they’d gone back to Phillip’s after the show.

And then when Phineas had left on tour with Jenny Lind, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to give the key back, couldn’t take seeing the look in Phillip’s eyes no matter how much he tried to convince himself that he was doing the right thing by leaving. Countless times he’d stood in front of their office door, turning the cold metal over in his hand and working up the courage to go in and hand it back to him, but every time his nerve failed him and he’d stuffed it in the bottom of his pocket and walked away.

He’d tried to tell himself that he would do it the day he left, that he would just go in early in the morning and leave it on Phillip’s desk. He’d even gone, had stood in their office and placed the key on the massive mahogany desk and walked resolutely away. But he’d faltered, turned back at the door, and the gleam of silver against honey-brown wood had caught him, pulled him back in almost like how he’d pulled Phillip into the world he’d created, and before he knew it he was walking out of the office, the key burning a hole through his pocket.

It had stayed there for the entirety of the tour, its surface growing more and more tarnished and worn as he fidgeted unconsciously with it, rubbing his thumb over and over its ridged surface. Whenever he’d felt nervous, anxious, panicky, he’d automatically reached for his waistcoat pocket until the fabric was worn thin in spots where his fingers had rested. And now, in the moment he needs it, he can’t find the damned thing.

“God, no, no, no, I can’t have lost it now,” he says to himself, patting frantically at the pockets of his soot-stained waistcoat. Just when it feels like his heart is going to jump out of his throat, he finally extricates the key from his inner pocket. Even in the dim light emanating from the sole streetlamp, he can see where the key has been rubbed smooth, right over Phineas’s engraved initials. His hands shake as he fits the key into the lock, and he exhales a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding as the lock clicks and he pushes the door open.

“Phil, I’m home!” he calls into the darkness, habitually fumbling for a match with which he can light the lamps. He can feel his headache receding as he steps across the threshold into the entryway, air still filled with the scent of paper and ink that always seemed to pervade their home. After digging in his pockets for a few moments, he gives up and pads deeper into the darkened flat.

There’s matches in the kitchen like always, and as Phineas potters around lighting the lamps, it almost feels like home again. Out of habit, he pulls two tumblers out of the cabinet and fills each with whiskey from one of the uncorked bottles sitting on the countertop, then he pads into the other room to perch them on top of a pile of papers adorning his desk. He’s taking the first sip from his glass when he realises. There’s something missing. Something in the eerie emptiness of the flat has opened a hole in the very fabric of his being, threatening to unravel and bring everything crashing down onto him. Suddenly, he feels like he’s fading into darkness as the whiskey burns its way down his throat and exhaustion turns his legs to lumps of lead and drags his eyelids closed. _Soul, exit stage left,_ he thinks ironically, and downs the other glass as an afterthought. He dumps the glasses in the sink and shuffles off to sink onto the bed, not even bothering to change out of his sooty clothes. The smell of Phillip’s cologne still lingers on the blankets, and Phineas doesn’t hesitate before he curls himself around a pillow and falls into a deep sleep.


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y'all ready for questionable dreams and......more questionable dreams?? enjoy :')

It’s one in the morning when Phineas peers curiously into the ring and sees Phillip whirling around it, decked out in his full ringmaster’s outfit, complete with hat and tails, singing his heart out. Despite his exhaustion, he can’t help but be drawn to the light that Phillip always seems to give off. He can almost feel his black mood lifting away as he watches Phillip dancing, for once content with himself and his place in the world.

Phineas is just about to walk away and leave Phillip to his practice when Phillip pauses mid-spin, eyes lighting up as he sees Phineas lingering in the doorway.

“Phin! What’re you doing here so late?” Phillip calls, smile breaking out across his face as Phineas strides towards him.

“I could ask you the same,” Phineas says with a laugh.

“Couldn’t sleep, you know, the usual. I looked in on you but I didn’t want to bother you while you were working, so I ended up here. Not sure why I didn’t just go home...I wanted to be around when you left, I think.”

Phineas can’t stop himself from laughing aloud as he catches Phillip in his arms and twirls him around.

“Well, I’ll take you home then, pretty boy. But first-” He steps back, just to watch Phillip’s eyes darken that miniscule amount, before he bends to bring the back of his hand to his lips. “Mr. Carlyle, may I have this dance?”

“If you must,” Phillip snarks back, but Phineas can see the grin hidden behind his sarcastic facade.

“I thought you were meant to be the polite one,” Phineas says as he grabs both of Phillip’s hands and runs backwards, pulling him to the center of the ring. Even before the words finish leaving his mouth, he sees something brewing in his boyfriend’s blue eyes. A moment later, Phillip makes to yank his hand out of his. He makes the mistake of grabbing after him, and suddenly finds himself staring up at Phillip. Their positions have flipped, Phineas dipped low with one of Phillip’s arms wrapping securely around him, their hands joined in reverse.

“Two can play at that game, Phin,” he says, smirking at Phineas’s discomfiture.

“Oh, really?” Phineas replies, and then without warning, he twists fluidly out of Phillip’s arms and takes off across the ring. He hears Phillip racing after him and smirks; he’s drawn him right into his trap. He slows suddenly, spinning on his heel and catching just a glimpse of Phillip’s surprised expression before he catches his arm and lets Phillip’s momentum spin them around.

 _“Phin!”_ Phillip gasps out, clamping onto Phineas’s forearm as he pulls him in. Phineas just laughs as he digs one foot into the floor of the ring and brings them to a stop, whirling Phillip flush against his chest, close enough that he only needs to lean forward a tiny bit for their lips to meet. Phillip is laughing breathlessly, eyes sparkling and breaths coming in little pants, and there’s nothing in the world that could’ve stopped Phineas from bringing their mouths together in a heated kiss. He slides one hand up the silky material of Phillip’s ringmaster’s jacket as he licks into his mouth, feeling Phillip shudder against him, and he can’t do anything except pull him closer.

“Phin?” Phillip says quietly when they finally break apart, leaning his head against Phineas’s shoulder. “I’m glad I stayed late tonight.” Phineas smiles openly at that, no hint of sarcasm in his expression.

“I am too, Phil. Let’s get you home now, love, you need to sleep.” Phillip barely protests as Phineas scoops him up, holding him close against his chest.

“Love you, Phin.”

* * *

Phineas cracks his eyes open to a softly lit room, dream still lingering at the edges of his world and threatening to pull him back under if he so much as closes his eyes again.

“Hmmm...Phil, dance with me tom’rrow, ‘kay?” he mumbles, burrowing into the hint of familiar warmth against his back. As he feels himself drifting back to sleep, he catches a whiff of Phillip’s cologne in the air and something like a hum of agreement. The last thing in his mind is the feeling of Phillip’s arms around him as he curls deeper into his mound of blankets.

* * *

 The distinctive sound of the New York fire engines throbs in Phineas’s ears as he watches Phillip go sprinting into the burning museum, heedless of Phineas’s cries for him to stop, to wait, that Anne’s right there. He gets an odd feeling of deja vu as he tears free of Constantine’s arms and goes racing in after him.

And then he’s in the fire and the flames are leaping around him and all he can see is flames and sparks and all he smells is smoke, but all Phineas can think of is Phillip, alone in this window into hell itself, confused and lost and searching for someone that isn’t there.

“Phillip! _Phillip!_ ” he screams desperately, searching the room for any sign of his partner. Smoke billows into his face and chokes his throat and brings tears to his eyes and he strips off his jacket to wave it in front of his face in an effort to clear the air before him.

“Phillip!” he shouts again, to no avail. He stumbles further into the blaze, barely feeling the heat as fire begins to lick at the corners of his waistcoat. Phillip’s blurred face swims before his eyes, mouth open in a helpless wail, but when Phineas makes to grab for him he vanishes, leaving only a swirl of smoke to mock him in his futile task. He whirls around as an ominous creaking begins to emanate from the building itself, but all he can do is watch as parts of the ceiling come crashing down behind him. There’s no hope of escape for him now, surrounded by flames and crackling wood.

Tears are welling in Phineas’s eyes, both from the smoke and from the utter hopelessness of his task, but he can’t give up, can’t leave Phillip here when the only thing that lies at the end of that path is death. He attempts to wipe the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand, but all he succeeds in doing is rubbing soot across his face and setting his eyes watering again. Even as he reaches for something to support himself with, he knows that there’s nothing there except mirages. The next thing he knows, he’s on the floor, the acrid smell of smoke growing stronger in his nose. When he next looks down at himself the edge of his waistcoat is smouldering.

“Shit, _shit_ ,” he curses, leaping to his feet. He barely feels the embers burning his hands as he pats frantically at the fabric, but all he succeeds at is fanning more air at the embers still stuck to him. Finally, he resorts to slapping at himself, hoping to somehow put it out.

“Dammit!” he nearly shouts as he glances up and sees the barest glimpse of red fabric in the distance, and then he’s running as fast as he can with the fire howling around him, struggling to draw breath into his lungs and stripping off his still-burning waistcoat as he runs. He barely spares a thought for the hours spent hand-tailoring that waistcoat as he leaves it in a flaming heap on the floor and screams Phillip’s name again. And finally, _finally_ , he makes out a faint voice calling back.

“Phineas? S’that you?” Phineas looks around frantically, searching for that hint of red he’d seen before, but Phillip is nowhere to be seen and the sound of the flames disorients Phineas’s hearing and he can’t place where the thin sound of his voice is coming from.

“Phillip, Phillip, God, I’m here, where are you?” The heat is no more than a faint echo now, all of Phineas focussed on _finding_ Phillip because he’s so close and he isn’t going to leave him here alone.

“I don’t know. Phineas, why, why are you he-” Phillip’s wavering voice cuts off suddenly into a hoarse shriek, and Phineas stops short as what can only be described as a tornado of fire rises up before him. He’s frozen, legs refusing to work as he stares into the flames. An entire ceiling beam whizzes past him, and the entire building shakes as if some demonic force is pulling on its very foundations.

“Phil, Phillip, where are you, where are you, this isn’t right, we’ve gotta get out of here,” he pants out, voice failing him just when he needs it most. He feels like he’s staring into a doorway to hell, the white-hot column of flames blending into orange as it rises higher and the roar of the blaze echoing too loudly through the trembling building.

“Phineas!” Phillip’s voice is suddenly behind him, but as he whirls to look, he feels searing pain explode across his back as he’s engulfed in the blaze. The last thing he sees is Phillip’s panicked face as metal and wood come crashing down between them and the fire tears him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love comments and kudos <3 lmk what u thought!!


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! here we see the introduction of the famed alcohol :)

Phineas sits straight up in bed, heart pounding, reaching for Phillip’s comforting weight by his side. He can almost feel the fire exploding across his back and his lungs filling with soot. 

And then his reaching hand falls right through the air and onto the cold, empty bed. He can feel the panic building in the back of his throat as he looks around wildly, almost expecting flames to burst from the walls at any moment. 

“Phil?” he gasps out questioningly.  _ He’s just gone to the bathroom, or to get a drink of water, or something, _ Phineas tries to tell himself, but the sinking feeling in his stomach says otherwise.

“Phillip!” No response. Breathless, he nearly throws himself off the bed, feet tangling in the haphazardly discarded covers and tossing him forward into the doorframe. He curses, voice heavy with panic, but he doesn’t spare a moment for the pain and instead rushes out into the main room, expecting to see Phillip passed out on the couch or slumped over the budget ledgers at his desk. 

There’s no one there. In fact, in the light filtering through the sole window, the flat looks like it hasn’t been lived in for weeks. A thin layer of dust covers the stacks of books and papers, and the sunlight catches individual motes of dust as they flutter restlessly through the air. Something rustles behind Phineas, standing frozen in the doorway separating the two rooms; he whirls around with Phillip’s name on his lips, but yet again, there’s no one there.

Phineas is almost hyperventilating as he stumbles back into the bedroom and sinks onto the bed. The soot stains on the white covers, illuminated by the single column of light trickling into the room, catch his eye, and for a moment he thinks  _ oh god, the dream, the dream was real, we were in the fire, how am I alive? _

And then a helpless scream tears from his throat. 

“Phillip!” Memories that he doesn’t quite remember experiencing are inserting themselves into the dreamscape that still lingers behind his eyes. He isn’t sure what’s real anymore, all that he knows is that somehow Phillip is gone and Phineas is here, Phillip is dead and Phineas outlived him. The soot on his clothes and their cold, empty flat is proof enough of that.

All at once, Phineas can’t stand being in the room with whatever ghosts are lingering there. He doesn’t even look twice at the glasses still sitting in the sink or the blankets marred with the soot from his clothes; instead, he beelines for Phillip’s stash of whiskey and yanks a random bottle from the cabinet.

And then he’s in the street, sunlight lancing painfully into his eyes. His heart is still pounding and he’s panting out each of his breaths, the raw feeling of panic still lingering in the back of his throat and threatening to white out the world around him, but with a massive effort he manages to stay upright. 

Phineas knows New York well enough to avoid downtown as he drags himself laboriously through the back streets, headed for the bar that the troupe would always gather at. He can’t take the sideways glances from the people on the streets, not now, not when he still isn’t sure what’s real and what isn’t, not when he’s somehow lost his only anchor to the real world.

The clock chimes three.

Phineas jerks up, eyes snapping to the clock tower atop City Hall. Sure enough, the two hands form a perfect right angle across the clock face. He lets out a strangled sound of defeat and barely prevents himself from flopping right down in the street where he’s standing. He’s somehow managed to while most of the day away, sleeping and panicking.  _ What would Phillip say, Phineas? _ he asks himself momentarily. But the mere thought of his boyfriend sends a pang of anguish through his heart and he banishes the thought as quickly as he can. 

Instead, he keeps walking until he can slip unnoticed into the alleyway behind the bar, drop heavily onto a pile of stones, and pop the lid off the bottle of whiskey still clutched in his hand. He doesn’t think he has the energy to face whomever he might find inside.

The sun is shining just like normal, and he can see people walking down the street outside the alley behind the bar, and Phineas’s frazzled brain can’t comprehend how the world keeps spinning and the sun keeps shining as his life falls to pieces before him.

So he sits out behind the bar and watches the sun sink as he drinks and drinks until he can’t feel anything except the burn of the alcohol slipping down his throat. But still he can’t shake the curious feeling of Phillip lying heavy in his arms, too still and cold, and nothing Phineas did could bring him back. He still isn’t sure whether that even happened. 

He keeps drinking. Maybe that way he can forget.

Phineas isn’t sure what time it is when he’s rudely shaken out of his alcohol-induced stupor by the bartender, poking out behind the bar to clear out anyone loitering in the alleyway. 

“Sir? Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to move.” Phineas barely makes eye contact as he nods and levers himself off his makeshift seat, body aching. The skies are dark and the moon is peeking out from behind the clouds, and Phineas doesn’t even want to consider how much time has passed. The bartender glances concernedly at him as he goes wandering aimlessly out of the alley, eyes downcast and empty bottle hanging from his hand, but he doesn’t spare a look back. There’s nothing he wants less than to be recognized, not here, not now. 

He spares a laugh for the man he used to be - the man he’d just been, it seemed - the erstwhile showman that would never pass up an opportunity to charm, to pull someone into his world. Whatever’s happened, all he knows is that he isn’t that man anymore. He keeps walking, searching for somewhere to sleep. 

It’s been decades since he’d been out on the streets, but he’s instantly taken back to his teenage years, homeless and destitute and living from penny to penny, sleeping under rags and scraps of paper and stealing little bits of food off the street vendors’ carts. He even has the soot and dirt-stained clothes to match. 

But there’s no one he can fall back on now, nowhere else he can go. He can’t go back to Phillip’s flat, not after this morning, and he doesn’t trust his still-drunk brain not to make a mess of himself staying anywhere else. The thought of going back to stay with someone from the troupe crosses his mind, but he can’t bring himself to throw himself on the mercy of one of them, not now. So eventually he just prays for a clear night and wanders into another deserted alleyway, where he ensconces himself in the corner under some newspaper and drops off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cherish comments and kudos <3

**Author's Note:**

> almost all of this fic is already written so i'll probably be posting a chapter once or twice a week? does that sound good?


End file.
